Alternatives
by Bowles
Summary: Sometimes the best answers are questions. [NatKitty]
1. Genesis

So... this has been in the works for quite some time (last August, to be precise). I finished the first chapter, then took a break and began rewriting it after reading _Ptolemy's Gate_. It's an odd fic in many ways, and was at times difficult to write, but also seemed to write itself at certain stretches. I'm not completely sure how I feel about it, but I've looked over it and couldn't find any major problems, so here it is.

Note: to avoid confusion, most of this is set about a week before Book 3. It's not AU - it a bit AU-ish, but it also follows canon. There's one part set during the aftermath of Book 3, but the setting will be more clear at that point. This will be three chapters long and about 10,000 words (in case you were wondering), and I'll be updating probably once a week. It just depends how quickly I edit the other two chapters.

Disclaimer: Don't own the trilogy. And one line is adapted from Batman Begins (one of my favorite movies).

Genesis

"Yes, I understand. Yes, that would be tragic. Yes, that would hurt a bit." The magician known as John Mandrake tapped his desk impatiently, pen in one hand, phone in the other. "Noted, Mr. Vyne. This never happened. No, we're not being bugged. Thank you for your assistance in the matter."

Mandrake set down the phone and smiled. After two months of fruitless searching, he had finally gotten results. The words scrawled onto the slip of paper in front of him looked to be just another address in the vast confines of London: _No. 7 Helsing Circle_. But now…

It had been almost three years since the incident with the golem and Gladstone's staff. Bartimaeus was off on a mission for Mandrake with a few other slaves, to the demon's disgust. Truth be told, it wasn't a necessary mission. Mandrake just really needed the annoying djinni off of his back for a few minutes. He was an important person now: the Information Minister! He had far too many servants to deal with Bartimaeus's whims.

Luckily, or unluckily, Mandrake was not much involved in the war overseas. He had become quite popular, with his close-cropped haircut and tie-less suits, and was admired by men and women alike – for quite separate reasons, he was always quick to note.

But every now and then, a mysterious crime with unknown perpetrators would occur, and although they were never settled, they brought back memories Mandrake had fought to repress. He wasn't sure why – there was a feeling of unsettling familiarity at the crime scenes, but he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him. She was dead. His arrogance had made sure of that.

And so when two months before he had heard of the myth of the Gazer, he who could answer any question, he had been intrigued. For three long years, it had nagged at the back of his mind, and although he was usually above such foolish tales, this one was different. People hushed up whenever he asked them about it. The crime lords of the city had a brutal mentality: if they could not learn of it (for whenever they tried even more mystifying accidents occurred, discouraging the notion), then no one could.

Until finally, a breakthrough had occurred. A long chain of confidants had led to a small mouse of a man in a pub who had refused to talk of the Gazer so far out in the open, or at all, except one glance at the foliot in Mandrake's employ had changed his mind. He had instead decided on imploring the secret over the phone, for at the very least he could be in the middle of Asia and have a decent head start when he talked to Mandrake.

Mandrake glanced back at the slip of paper once more before pressing the intercom button on his desk. "Piper?"

A voice crackled through the receiver. "Yes, Mr. Mandrake?"

"I have urgent business to attend to outside of the office," he said with an air of authority. "If any visitors come calling, tell them I shall attend to their matters at a more suitable time."

A sigh on the other end. "Of course, Mr. Mandrake."

But Mandrake was already gone.

-

Helsing Circle was tucked away into the grimy underworld of London. It was ironic, actually, that the very place the crime lords were looking for was right under their noses. Mandrake supposed the Gazer found it comical. That or he was just exceptionally ignorant.

Mandrake found it disturbing. Granted, as the Information Minister, he was supposed to capture and detain criminals, but it was very difficult to capture the feared mobsters that inhabited the city. They were less numerous than they had been in years, but it was very hard to attack the beast in the heart when it was wearing such a thick layer of armor: intimidation.

The circle wasn't impressive in any fashion. The houses were old and decrepit, and homeless commoners lined the streets. Poverty was at its worst here, the place which so many of his colleagues whose jobs dealt with things far more comfortable than his ignored. It fit that it was poor.

_How can they be saved if the good people do nothing?_ It was a fair question, but he soon realized the answer. _The bad people do nothing. It's the good people that do something._

It wasn't that the good people were ignorant; it was that there was a lack of good people. This may have been more disturbing to Mandrake than his actual surroundings.

He had chosen to walk the short distance from the café where his chauffeur had dropped him off to this small little circle. It was less suspicious that way, and also having a limousine drive into the darkest parts of London was not generally an intelligent idea. Mandrake had also left his usual attire – a dark, comfortable suit unbuttoned at the top – in the restroom of the café, and instead had dressed up more as a commoner. He had even ripped a few holes in his windbreaker, and his trousers were slightly faded thanks to a spell he had found in a fashion book. Worn trainers made soft pit-patting noises on the dank cement as he walked, and a cap and glasses hid his face. All in all, he thought he looked the part of just another poor commoner.

"Can you spare a pound?"

Mandrake looked to his right, startled. A vagrant wrapped in a ratty blanket stared at him helplessly, wrinkles creasing his face.

In spite of himself, the young magician managed a wry smile and changed his voice. "If I could, I sure as hell wouldn't be here, would I?"

To his surprise, the vagrant grinned toothlessly back. "You ain't homeless. Watch your step."

Mandrake nearly tripped over a hubcap that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but caught himself just in time. "How did you –" he began as he looked over to his right once more.

But it was no use. The old man had disappeared.

_What in Gladstone's name was that?_ He blinked curiously as he continued up the pathway. _I even disguised my speaking pattern, but still he – _

The result of this brief reverie was that Mandrake did trip, this time over a large chunk of concrete that had been loosened from the sidewalk. He landed facedown in the overgrown grass, and silently cursed to himself as he got himself up.

_I guess I look more the part now_, he thought dryly as he noted the dirt and grass stains on his clothes. A stubby object to his right caught his eye as he looked up.

A sign. It read: _Number 7 Helsing Circle_. Although the 'h' was close to falling off, it was still legible, if not weathered and battered.

All that stood between him and the revered Gazer was a plain wooden door that was missing a hinge. _How fitting_, he thought with a smirk.

He strode up to the door confidently, wrapped his hand around the knob, and pulled.

It did not open.

He tried once more, before a voice emanated from the interior of the house. "John Mandrake, I presume?"

Mandrake nodded, irritated that he was not able to open such a useless door. It had to be some sort of defensive magic. "Yes."

The voice chuckled. "But that's not the correct answer, is it? Legally, I presume, but truly, the answer is something quite different."

"What?"

"Forgive me. Speaking in riddles is a hobby," said the voice. "But if I were to be picky, I could decide not to let you in, for you did not answer me truthfully."

"Er…"

"Ah, I'm messing with you." The door swung open, revealing a tall, old man who looked like he'd seen his fair share of life. "You and I both know that you would never say your true name in such an open place. It is a sign of weakness, is it not?"

"You!" gasped Mandrake, recognizing the man. "The vagrant out there!"

"But it is often true that our greatest weaknesses are also our greatest strengths; it is a double-edged sword." He frowned. "And I usually do not like to be referred to as 'the vagrant out there'."

Mandrake blinked. "Uh, sorry. But are you –" his voice lowered "– the Gazer?"

"I suppose you could call me that, but that is another name I do not prefer to be addressed by," said the Gazer as he beckoned for Mandrake to come inside. "Would you like me to address you as 'the seventeen-year-old magician with a poor disguise and worse acting skills to boot'?"

"Er –"

"The answer is no," he replied as he pulled Mandrake inside and slammed the door shut. "And here I was, thinking you were bright and talented."

"You're not very polite, are you?" burst Mandrake unexpectedly.

To his surprise, his counterpart chuckled. "I'm polite enough. I just value honesty over courtesy. And I like to have a laugh every now and then."

Mandrake's eyes shifted around nervously. The inside of the house was just as rundown as the rest of the circle. "If you do not wish to be called the Gazer –"

"I said you could call me that. I just don't like being addressed by it. It's awkward, see."

"Right. Well, what name should I address you by?"

The Gazer smiled for reasons Mandrake did not know and turned to a long corridor that ran the length of the house. "Michael will do."

"I think I know a Michael," said Mandrake as he followed him down the corridor.

"No, you don't. You're just trying to make conversation because you're uncomfortable," replied the Gazer unceremoniously. "Unless you count Michael Benson, that fool from the Security Office, but you've only heard of him because Marmadruke Fry mentioned him in the last meeting at the Prime Minister's Richmond estate."

"_What?_" Mandrake spluttered. "How could you possibly know about that?"

"Your mind isn't as secure as you'd think." He laughed hoarsely. "But I didn't need to delve into your conscience for that. I've been keeping an eye on you ever since I heard you were seeking me out."

"Wait – what? You've been keeping an eye on me?"

"Well, I _am_ the Gazer. I wouldn't be called that if I never did any gazing."

"Yes, well… how in Gladstone's name did you know I was seeking you out?"

Michael clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth warningly. "You act as if Gladstone was some sort of god."

"Of course not," Mandrake protested as Michael opened a door at the very end of the hall. "He was a hero."

"To some, yes."

"But that's not my point," continued Mandrake as if he hadn't been interrupted. "How did you know I was looking for you?"

Michael beckoned for him to follow him into the room. He did, and had to keep himself from gasping in amazement. It was much larger than he would've thought physically possible from the outside of the house, and in the middle a deep pool of clear liquid rested peacefully. An old mirror stood to the side alongside a table housing a crystal ball.

"Mostly for show," Michael stated, gesturing to the crystal ball. "Every now and then it's useful for predicting how long it will take for my pizza to arrive."

Mandrake poked his finger dangerously close to the liquid. "What's this? Some kind of memory absorbent?"

"No, it's a Magnifying Pool. You can touch it if you'd like, but it may give you a seizure. It happens to some." His hand shot upwards and safely into his pocket. "Good idea. It can give the more complicated ones a spot of trouble."

"What?"

"You're complicated," said Michael simply. "You're on the borderline between two sides."

"Good and evil?"

"Not quite. Less… broad." He adjusted a dial next to the Pool and the liquid receded slightly. "You know, I snatched up this house as soon as I heard it was for sale. Seven is a powerful number."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"Nothing whatsoever. Just a random fact," replied the old man. His long, dark fingers stroked his unshaven chin thoughtfully. "I'd seen all about you in my Pool. It helps with seeing the present, or the past. It's a pity we won't be using it today. I decided to let you seek me, although I wanted to see you in person. It's always different in person."

Mandrake gave him an odd look. "You decided to let me seek you?"

"Yes. I gave you my blessing, so to speak. Why do you think the crime lords have never found me when I am right in front of them? I am picky about my clients."

"Some would say I'm not so decent myself."

"Some would be wrong," stated Michael bluntly. "Although they have a point."

"And that would be?"

"That you definitely have made some mistakes." He grinned again, although Mandrake noticed that this time he had a full row of teeth. "But it comes with inexperience, with ignorance."

"Ignorance of what?"

He laughed again. "I thought you already knew that! That is why you came to see me."

"Wha– oh," Mandrake muttered. "My question."

"And you have a question because you have fear," Michael stated plainly. "The fact that you fear who you are becoming is one reason why you are decent. But I think it is time that you state your reason… your question."

Mandrake was silent for a few seconds, but finally, he spoke.

"Who am I?"

"A very good question, but I am not able to answer it," replied Michael. "The most important questions only we ourselves can answer."

His face fell. "So you can't help me?"

"I never said that!" exclaimed the old man, annoyed. His hand twitched as he readjusted the dial. "I can help you, of course! But I'm not sure if you will like my help at first."

"How would I not like it?"

Michael sighed. "Sometimes the best answers are questions. I believe the question here is rather simple: who would you be under… _different _circumstances?"

There was a whirring sound, but Mandrake ignored it. "How does that help me?"

"Again, only you can answer that question," replied Michael. The whirring continued, and he flashed a smile. "But there is more help on the way. For this, I think we shall need my trusty mirror."


	2. Leviticus

Here's the timely update I promised. This is easily the most important and longest part of the fic, and I spent some time editing this. Not too many major changes were made, but it was fleshed out a bit, and I think it's superior to the first chapter for this reason; perhaps (if time permits) I'll go back to that part and re-edit it. There's lots of philosophy in this chapter (and in the entire fic) and an exchange that may make several vigilant shippers happy.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Bartimaeus Trilogy.

Leviticus

Michael moved about the room, towards the mirror, before finally looking back at Mandrake.

"Come on, then," he said impatiently. "What're you waiting for?"

"Er –"

"Just come stand here in front of the mirror," Michael ordered. "I'll do the rest."

Mandrake obliged, and in a few seconds was staring at the mirror disdainfully. The metal had lost its luster, and there were a few scratches and dents about it; in short, it fit in with the rest of the household.

"It's old," he remarked.

Michael grunted as he drew a slip of paper from his breast pocket. "Ancient."

"What does it do?"

"It answers questions." The old man looked around the room for a few seconds before turning to Mandrake. "Do you by any chance have a pen?"

"Yes, right here."

"Thanks."

He began scribbling something down on the slip of paper, and Mandrake glanced back at the mirror. "What kind of questions does it answer?"

"Questions of probability," Michael replied. "So if you just asked it, 'Who am I?' it wouldn't give you an answer. It shows alternatives, if you will, to what is and what has been."

"Uh huh. I see."

Michael stuffed the paper and the pen in his hands. "Sign."

"What?"

"Sign it," he repeated. "Your real name, too."

Mandrake hesitated a few moments before finally doing so, and as soon as he had signed it Michael grabbed it from his hands and stuck it in a slot above the mirror. It glowed brightly for a second, and Mandrake grimaced at not having seen what had been written on it.

"I wrote the question on the paper," Michael explained, as if reading his mind. "You had to sign it because you are the beneficiary."

"Oh." Mandrake blinked. "What was the question?"

"You'll see. I think it'll give you a better perspective if you have to figure it out for yourself."

"Uh huh." He stared at the mirror, which in all actuality looked quite plain now. "And what am I supposed to do now?"

"Wait," said the old man. He smiled. "Patience is a virtue."

Mandrake just barely held back a snide comment and instead obeyed. It seemed like ages had passed – the sun was surely beginning to set, he thought sarcastically – when Michael finally spoke again.

"It's happening."

Mandrake's head swiveled towards him. "What's happening?"

His counterpart gestured to the mirror. "Look."

His head spun quickly (a bit too quickly, he thought with a grimace) back to the mirror. Mist was creeping in from the metallic edges towards the glass like a group of snakes, slithering to and fro. They seemed to vaguely resemble something, but he couldn't tell; as soon as they began to take shape they broke apart once more. Finally a thick shield of the substance covered the panel and was quite calm for a short time.

It was then that it began frothing madly, flashing different colors on a whim and contorting into different oblong shapes that really had no form. Finally it flashed silver, then black, and then a whole assortment of colors: reds, greens, blues, yellows. The mist rushed to the side, revealing a dim picture, but then back to the middle and into the picture. The picture seemed to absorb the fog, and suddenly it was almost blinding in its clarity.

"Step," ordered the man.

"Step?"

"Yes. Forward."

Mandrake knew it was no use arguing any more, long resigned to the fact that this bloody codger was out of his mind. He took a step – a step of faith, perhaps – although that's not to say his eyes were open. He wasn't that courageous, after all.

To his surprise, his foot did not meet the surface of the mirror. His eyes opened and he realized.

He was _inside_ the picture.

"Nifty, eh?" came Michael's remark from behind him. He turned around, only to see that the Gazer had stepped through, also. "It _is_ a mirror, but more of a doorway, if you get my meaning. Very handy."

"Where are we?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Think about it."

Mandrake looked around, then gasped. Before him was a vibrant scene; buses and cars roared past on a prominent street, and at an outside café the chatter of customers could be heard as their waiters served them. "_Druid's!"_ he exclaimed. "That coffeehouse?"

"Yes."

"But what does this have to do with anything?" he spluttered, incredulous. "I rarely go here."

"It does not matter." Michael waved his hand airily, as if to dispel his concerns. "It was here that one of the most important events in your lifetime occurred, whether you know about it or not. It does not matter that you weren't directly involved in it, only that you were involved with it in some shape or fashion. And it is here that we shall wait."

Mandrake grunted indignantly and crossed his arms in a sophisticated manner. "Wait for what?"

"The answer."

"And precisely how long," drawled Mandrake sardonicly, "will it take for the answer to arrive? I'm a busy man."

The old man chuckled, stretching his grayed beard wide across his jawline.. "You might be busy, but you're hardly a man."

"Why –"

"Hush," Michael interrupted, bringing his finger to his lips. "We won't have to wait much longer."

"Oh really?" Mandrake was skeptical.

"Yes, really," said Michael, his words laconic. "In fact, here it comes now."

It took Mandrake a few seconds to realize what he meant, but it became rather obvious quickly. A large, slightly futuristic-looking bus came to a grinding halt outside the coffeehouse, touting a large advertisement that read: _The Glass Pentacle – the revolutionary new play by visionary playwright Quentin Makepeace_. Below it was a small ad reading: _Support your country; support the war._ It had the British flag on it, but also another flag that he did not recognize – it had countless stars and thick red stripes, but it was quite unfamiliar.

"What's that?" he inquired.

"A political ad," replied Michael. A smirk came across his face, a face which Mandrake noted to himself (in a rather biting manner) seemed to be stretched into a permanent sneer – or was it a grin? "No matter where you go, you won't escape them. A sad fact of life, I'm afraid."

"But what's –"

"Quiet. You'll miss it."

Mandrake turned back to the bus, although he wasn't sure what exactly he was about to miss. It was just an ordinary bus stop, if only odd for the fact that his lenses did not detect any spheres in the area. In fact, they didn't catch any magical activity at all.

_Someone's _bound_ to report that_, he thought dryly.

The doors opened automatically and a crowd of people poured out from the bus. Some were old, some were young, but all were definitely commoners. He did not catch sight of any demons, and besides, what self-respecting magician would be caught dead using public transportation?

An elderly lady hobbled down the steps, followed by her youthful grandson. Behind them, a man with crutches stumbled his way out onto the sidewalk. Two tourists talked amiably as they stepped out into the cool London air.

_Unremarkable in all aspects_, he thought. _I don't get what he wants me to see._

A slender and pretty girl with dark hair descended the steps, tossing her head to the side and staring fixedly right at the coffeehouse. He could've sworn she was looking at _him_, and he instinctively took a step backwards.

"What the hell?" he muttered in a low voice.

It had been almost three years since he'd seen the face of one Kitty Jones, although every once in a while it would nag at the back of his conscience. But here she was now, staring straight past him and into Druid's – yet it was who appeared next that shocked him.

A tall and thin teen with hair as dark as hers, worn somewhat short, emerged from the bus. He carried about him the all-too-familiar swagger of confidence, though his eyes were suspicious and alert to the point of paranoia.

Mandrake recognized the youth immediately.

It was _him_.

The teen – well, Nathaniel – looked to Kitty, raised an eyebrow, and smirked slightly. She returned the favor, and he held out his arm in a mocking fashion.

"Would you like to be escorted, my lady?"

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Come _on_, Nat. You know that's not what he meant."

"Oh, is that so?" said his mirror, feigning interest. "And I suppose _that's_ why he sent the flowers! And the chocolates, and the money –"

"Hey," said the girl defensively, "that wasn't even him. That was my mum and dad."

"And the book that you had been wanting for ages," her counterpart finished. "Yes, yes, it makes perfect sense."

Someone tapped Mandrake's shoulder and he twisted suddenly. Michael, who he had quite forgotten in the midst of things, bore a small smile.

"Beginning to understand?" he asked.

Mandrake shook his head as the two continued their banter to his side. "Not at all. If I'm here, and he's there, then where…"

"Stop trying so hard." Michael kicked at the curb disinterestedly, looking disappointed that he didn't comprehend the situation. "Just watch."

Apparently the two had stopped their quarreling long enough to find a table outdoors. A waiter attended to them quickly, and the girl ordered a coffee.

"And you, sir?" asked the waiter.

"Tea," the two of them echoed. "And a muffin."

The waiter bowed slightly. "I'll be right out with your order."

Nathaniel watched him leave and sighed. "Let's hope this doesn't take as long as last time."

"Agreed," murmured Kitty, sliding the saltshaker absently across the table. It was odd, Mandrake thought to himself, to see her so… serene. He'd only ever seen her in the heat of battle – for some foolish reason he had thought of her as always being so tense, but naturally she wouldn't be so active at all times. "That was horrible."

"Remember the line?"

"Of course I do," she said. "There was that band here and some politician. They were promoting his campaign or something… the line was out into the street."

"And he brought that man who solved those murders down at the Tower," he continued.

"Yeah, him. What was his name?"

"Morris Fleschley? Montley Fischer? I don't remember." He grinned and pushed the saltshaker back at her. Mandrake watched with horrified intrigue. Even stranger than the girl's serenity was the boy's – _his_ – own comfort in the presence of her. "But he looked pretty pleased with himself. He was beaming throughout the ceremony. Conceited fool."

"Oh, and you're _so_ much better," she replied curtly. The boy's eyes narrowed and he looked down at the table irritably.

"Well, I'm not that bad!" he protested.

The situation had not gotten any more comprehendible to Mandrake with time. To be succinct, he was in utter shock. Why was this boy – _him_ – getting along so well with Kitty Jones, a wanted convict (never mind the fact that she was dead)? They squabbled like a married couple!

"_What kind of questions does it answer?"_

"Questions of probability. So if you just asked it, 'Who am I?' it wouldn't give you an answer. It shows alternatives, if you will, to what is and what has been."

Then it hit him.

This wasn't the present. This was a different path, another alternative to what could have been. The only question was what had changed – what could cause him to befriend Kitty Jones?

"It's irrelevant, anyway," his mirror was saying. He scowled at the table. "And I'm not the only cocky one around here."

"Are you saying that –" She trailed off, and her eyes were wearily half-closed; obviously the subject was one brought up very often. "Oh, God. Not that again."

"Not what again?"

"Not that," she repeated. "Give it a rest, Nat! It's not like he's going to do any harm. He's just… very outgoing."

"Very outgoing my arse," breathed Nathaniel indignantly, scooting his chair backwards. "The guy's unbearable, Kitty! No one can stand him! He's always around, trying to undermine us and, I don't know, exalt himself in your eyes."

Kitty waved her hand dismissively and made a tutting noise. "Don't be stupid. He's just trying to be nice."

"Nice?" He tilted his head backwards and laughed. "He's a bastard! Ask anyone! Ask Jakob, or Stanley, or any of them!"

"You seem to have given this some thought," she spat.

"Of course I have!" His fingers rapped upon the table furiously. "You're my best friend – why wouldn't I think about it?"

"No, you're just too insecure to accept that I have other friends!" She was riled now; her eyes flickered dangerously across the table, and Mandrake was too enthralled with the tenseness of the discussion to even begin to question how the two had come to be, in his mirror's own words, 'best friends'. "You're trying to view him as an outsider, coming in to –"

"Steal my friends?" he offered dryly. He looked down at the ground, lost in thought. "Maybe he is. I don't know. Maybe you're right, and I'm being stupid. I just…. I just don't like sharing you."

That took the air right out of her. Her eyebrows rose, and her face contorted into a strange shape. After several seconds he seemed to notice this, and he glanced at her worriedly.

"You what?" Kitty spluttered.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," he said, his eyelids twitching. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh really? Then exactly how did you mean it?" For once, his mind seemed to be on the same page as hers; Mandrake wondered the same thing. Stupid boy.

"I meant…" Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "You know. I mean, it's not like that, of course… not like that… but you're, uh…"

"What?" she demanded. "I'm what?"

He looked back at her, face downcast yet his eyes were quite defiant. "You're really my only friend."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Kitty exclaimed, leaning over the table energetically. Her hair fell in front of her face in a graceful motion, framing it nicely. Mandrake grimaced to himself. Oh great, now I'm noticing how attractive a known terrorist is. "What about Stanley, or Jakob? What about Fred?"

"Oh yes, because we're all such good chums," he replied sarcastically. "The last time Fred and I were together we got into a fight, if you'll recall."

"Wasn't much of a fight, really," she muttered.

"Of course it wasn't'!" Nathaniel spluttered. "He pulled a knife on me, Kitty! A knife! The guy's got serious mental issues! And Stanley backed him up!"

She faced him, undeterred. "And what about Jakob?"

"Oh, we're nice to each other," he responded, and Mandrake felt a sudden surge of guilt at having kept the boy hostage three years back. Stop empathizing with the situation, he thought, reminding himself distinctly of Whitwell. It had to be done. "But Jakob's never felt at ease with me. Thinks I'm a predator or something."

"Well, with your personality, it's not a bad assumption!"

"Oh, so you're blaming me for this!" He was on the edge of his seat now, his face red. "You're blaming me for the fact that I'm –"

"A lonely fool, yes!" she retorted fiercely, glaring at him from the opposite side of the table. "You're the one that alienates yourself, you're the one who makes others feel as if they can't turn their back for fear of being stabbed!"

"Oh, that's rich!" he said angrily. Mandrake couldn't help but think to himself that the argument reminded him of many a talks with Bartimaeus, albeit with a little more tenacity and a little less sarcasm. "I guess I should just completely change my personality! Maybe that'll help, and I won't be friendless anymore!"

"Your tea, sir?"

The waiter had approached them now. The boy looked at him, flustered, and nodded.

"Thank you," he said as the waiter placed the tea and muffin down in front of him.

"And your coffee, madam," he continued, placing the mug on the table next to Kitty's hand.

"Thanks," she said grudgingly.

He nodded and left quickly, leaving the two alone.

Kitty took a sip of her coffee. "Well, that's not completely true," she stated calmly.

"What?"

"You're not friendless." She eyed his muffin, which Mandrake personally thought looked completely unappatizing. "You've got me."

"Ah. Yes. You." He bit into his muffin and made an odd face. "Blech – raspberries. You want it?"

"Sure."

He handed the muffin over. "Well. Right."

"And you're not a total bastard."

"I don't remember you saying I was a total bastard."

"I was going to."

"Oh." He shrugged. "Well, thank you for that."

She chewed on the muffin quietly. "You're welcome."

"You want to see more?"

Mandrake looked up for the first time in quite a while, his attention finally torn from the scene in front of him. For a moment, he had come close to actually believing it, but now that he had been broken from this reverie, he realized how he'd been deceived. Oh, it was a very clever illusion, rest assured, but he wasn't a fool, after all. He knew well enough not to trust something like this.

"No, no," he stated, "I think I should be getting back. I've seen enough of this."

"Oh," grunted Michael. "I see."

"Good." Mandrake put his hands in his pockets awkwardly and inhaled sharply. Somewhere along the exchange, he had forgotten to breathe. "I'm a very busy person, you know."

"I know," replied the old man. "But that's not what I was referring to."

Mandrake stared at him. "And what, pray tell, were you referring to?"

"You don't believe it." He smirked, laughed; Mandrake wished dearly to hit him, for all at once he felt as if he were a fool. "Not for a second."

"I am a skeptic by nature," he protested, arms crossed. "Are you saying I am wrong in being apprehensive? Where –" his voice was growing louder now, gaining in strength "– where is your proof?"

"Proof?" laughed the man, his face breaking out into that despicable sneer once more. "Are you crazy, boy? The proof is everywhere! Do you not recognize the face that your djinni has begun taking up frequently, if only to remind you of what you have done? Do you not recognize the coffeehouse – do you not recognize your city?"

Mandrake was silent, but Michael just shook his head. "Do you not recognize yourself?"

"That," Mandrake said through gritted teeth, "is not me. It's an illusion, an apparition – I don't have a damned clue, but I'm not an idiot! I know not to believe something so transparent and outrageous!"

"Oh, you know not to believe!" Now it was Michael's voice that was gaining in strength. "Is that what the magicians are teaching these days?"

"Demons!" cried Mandrake angrily. He waved his hands about, gesturing to nameless people sitting nearby. "Why not? Surely they can take up the illusion! I've seen it all before!"

Michael chuckled, almost menacingly. "My dear boy… do you see any spirits?"

Mandrake faltered. Truthfully, there weren't any demons in sight, but then again, lenses could only do so much…

"Try calling your most savage djinni." Michael's voice was orderly, commanding. His anger had lowered somewhat, but his eyes still flashed dangerously, as if he wanted nothing more than a good fistfight. "Try it. Really. We'll see who matches up better, hm?"

"Fine," Mandrake snapped. Although the Gazer's utter confidence shook him slightly, he wasn't worried: Fritang _had _followed him into the house, and was surely foaming at the mouth. Not the most powerful djinni, but truly a hungry one.

He snapped.

Silence.

The Gazer watched with interest.

"Fritang!" he called.

A cup smashed against the ground somewhere and his hopes rose considerably.

"Fritang!" he repeated.

Waiters hurried to clean up the mess while diners swore.

Nothing happened.

"Well, well," remarked Michael dryly, folding his arms over his chest, "nothing seems to be happening! Perhaps your _most savage djinni_ –" these words were laced with acerbity "– is no match for a measly old mirror! I mean, after all, you couldn't have stepped into the mirror. It was a door, right? And it opened while you were distracted, looking all the while like a mirror. That's your thinking, isn't it? But Fritang hasn't gotten through… No matter! Perhaps there were foliots or djinni guarding it. That's the answer!"

"Don't be ridiculous." Mandrake spoke quietly, with unasserted anxiety. "Fritang would've alerted me instantly to their presence."

"Oh, well, then he's obviously disobeying." Michael's words were almost cruel now in their bluntness, their endless venom and derision. "Stipples it'll be, then!"

"_Shut up!"_ Mandrake hissed. The Gazer seemed slightly taken aback by his sudden tenacity. "Shut _up!"_

"Ah," he commented, drawing his jacket about him in an almost regal manner. "We've got a fighter here, do we? Well, my apologies, but I'm going to have to break you down before I build you back up. That's what they're preaching in the militaries now, isn't it? But the commoners don't know a thing. You've done a good job with that –"

"You – " Mandrake glared at the two teens sitting calmly at their table " – don't – " the girl laughed, and the boy grinned, pleased with himself " – know – " she offered him a bite of the muffin, and he made a comical face which resulted in more laughter " – _anything_."

Michael followed his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't?" He smiled slightly. "I know enough to know that _those two_ –" he jabbed a finger to Kitty and his mirror "– are enjoying each other's company."

Mandrake stared at them. They looked so at ease…

_He_ looked so at ease.

"Clever thing, this," he remarked offhandedly, his anger dissipating slightly. "I don't know what it is or how you did it, but if it's an illusion, it's cleverly designed."

"Oh, so now we're not sure if it's an illusion?" Michael grinned. "I'd say that's progress, eh? In a few years of so, you might actually arrive at the truth!"

Mandrake snorted. "Oh, please. The truth is overrated."

"Pardon?"

"The commoners haven't a clue in the slightest what's going on with the war in America and they're as happy as ever." He smirked. "Blissful ignorance."

"I think you underestimate the good people of England," stated the old man simply, although Mandrake couldn't help but feel as if he was a teacher scolding his pupil. "They know more than you think. They know more than you'd like them to."

"But you just said –"

"That they don't know a thing, I know." He shrugged. "Well, for the most part they don't. But they might know one or two things."

"As I was saying," Mandrake stated, changing the subject, "it's a clever design. My lenses seem to actually be malfunctioning. I can't see any spheres at all, or demons, too, for that matter."

"Demons?" Michael gave him an odd look. "Spirits aren't demons. Does Bartimaeus look like Beelzebub to you?"

He shot him a glare. "I don't want to talk about Bartimaeus right now –"

"And the reason you can't see any spheres or spirits," continued the Gazer, unperturbed, "or any other traces of magic, for that matter, is because there are none."

"_What?"_ Mandrake did a double-take. "What do you mean, no magic? What kind of government is this?"

"My boy, this is one of those rare cases where it _isn't_ the government's fault," Michael replied, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. "Strange, I know, but it isn't those old fools' faults this time. You can't really expect them to do any better than they have in this instance. Don't you see?"

"See what?" Mandrake exclaimed irritably, stretching his hand out towards the coffeehouse. "I see a teenager smoking outside an adult video store, a waiter with green hair, and two mortal enemies having coffee together! What else is there to see?"

"Nathaniel," said the old man calmly, "in this alternative, there is no magic."

"No magic!" Mandrake chuckled to himself, but Michael, the damned old man, did not flinch or wince or even budge. It was then that he realized that he was serious. "What? How do they get by without any magic?"

"Commoners do it every day, don't they?" replied the old man shortly. "Not anything too exotic, is it? I think magic is vastly overrated, by the way."

"Vastly overrated? Are you crazy? It's a godsend!"

"Hm." Michael seemed indignant. "Don't remember reading _that_ in any scriptures."

"But – but…" No matter how he protested, it seemed that the Gazer was correct. There wasn't any magic here. That explained a lot. That's why he and Jones were friends – there was nothing to keep society in place. There was nothing to separate them. In short, they didn't know any better.

What a crazy world.

"This alternative," he mumbled, ruffling his hair in annoyance. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Michael glowered at him. "Oh, don't be daft."

"I'm not being daft!" he exclaimed. He thought he'd already guessed at the answer, but hearing his counterpart explain things was much more gratifying.

"There are many alternatives," Michael explained with a sigh, irritated. "Such as: 'who would you be without magic', 'what shape would the Empire be in if Devereaux were to be assassinated', or even, 'how would you feel if you would've had more to eat for lunch than an orange'. The answer to the last one, if you're wondering, is 'much more energetic and generally more optimistic'."

"How – how'd you create this?"

"Oh, don't flatter me." Needless to say, Michael looked somewhat mollified. "I didn't create any of this. It's… a gift, you see. Ah, but that's not important."

"But how –"

"Don't worry about that. Worry about what's important."

"This doesn't make any sense!" Mandrake cried, nearly leaping into the air in protest. "How'd you do this? It's all so… so…"

"Illogical?" Michael laughed bitterly. "Well, Nathaniel, would you consider yourself a man of intellect?"

Mandrake blinked. "Of course."

"Just as I thought," murmured the old man. He closed his eyes and breathed out, yet even in a moment of complete quiet Mandrake couldn't help but feel as he still radiated with energy. "It's funny: some of the most intelligent people in the world are the ones that have the hardest times accepting the simplicity of it all. When you try so hard to understand, you will invariably fail, for the evidence is simplicity itself. It's like air – we can't see it, but we know it's there. Unless you have some theory about that, as well."

"Huh." Mandrake shook his head. "You're a crazy old man."

"Well, I'm glad I got my point across, then," Michael sighed. He looked to the table and immediately brightened up. "Hey, look. They're leaving. You're leaving, I mean."

It was true. The two had gotten up and were already halfway to the street by the time he noticed.

"Come on," he said hurriedly. "We have to follow them."

"No, we don't," responded Michael. "We've seen enough."

"Seen enough?" Mandrake retorted, incredulous. He was almost panicking. "I still have no clue in the slightest as to what's going on here! I need to see more!"

"What do you need to see? There's nothing left to see. You've seen it all – whether you understand is a moot point. That's your job."

"Then what was the point of doing this at all if I'm not going to understand?" Mandrake was frantic now. He had to find out the secret to all of this; he had to understand. "There was no point! Now I'm even more confused! I don't know why or how any of this is going on! I know nothing!"

Michael didn't look very flustered. "It is not the knowing that is important. It is the understanding."

"_What? _You just said whether I understood is a moot point!"

"To me it is," he explained calmly. "I've shown you what you needed to see. You didn't need to know why or how – you just needed to comprehend and understand. I can't help you do that. You have to accomplish that by yourself. Until you realize that sometimes you don't really need to know, you're going to be stuck. You're overcomplicating things."

"I don't really need to know? Then what do you propose I do?"

"Understand. Trust." Michael cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. "Trust for once in what your heart wants you to do. Stop trying to overthink things. You don't need to know why, not now. Later, yes, but you'll know when that time has come. Right now, you just need to understand how this is significant."

Mandrake made a mocking gesture. "Oh, yes. How is this significant?"

"It answers your original question, doesn't it? Or at least makes it clearer."

"My original question?" His eyes widened. "Oh yes. Who I am. Right."

"Yes."

He bit his lip and looked back at the empty table somberly. "This… this didn't help at all. All it did was confuse me."

"Inquiry is the first step in understanding," stated the old man with a knowing smile. "Confusion is the second step."

"And what's the third step?"

For a brief second Michael's eyes flashed. "Acceptance."

"Right. And I seem to be stuck in step two."

"Not 'stuck', per se." Michael scratched his chin. "More like 'willingly staying in the same place'."

"I'm not –" Mandrake tugged at his hair "– I'm not willing!"

The old man grinned. "My point exactly."

"That is _not_ what I meant and you know it."

"I know," he conceded. "But at least it was true."

"You are impossible!" the magician exclaimed. He shook his head and kicked a pebble irritably. This was all very confusing. "Okay, how about this: let's say that I believe you and your crazy premise that this is what my life would've been like without magic. So, Ms. Jones and I are acquaintances in this alternative. I fail to see how this really applies to my situation or helps me at all."

The Gazer sighed. "My boy, I am not saying that alternatives are the most important thing by any means in finding or judging yourself, but they are helpful. If given an equal playing field, you and Ms. Jones would've become friends. But you didn't, for magic exists. Yet still… does this not help you? Does this not make you see how close you are, how thin the line is?"

"I…" Mandrake trailed off, looking away. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"Perhaps you could make up for past amends."

"Oh, yes, the opportunities are golden!" Mandrake laughed darkly. He still refused to look at Michael – he still couldn't understand. "Right after I resurrect her, that is! You old fool, she's dead! Jones is dead!"

Michael crossed his arms over his chest discerningly, and for some reason appeared… triumphant?

"Now, I wouldn't say _that_."


	3. Deuteronomy

So here we are: the third and final chapter. There are going to be parts where it's predictable, or odd, or any other adjective you can think of, but I'd like to say that it ends in a way that will get you thinking. That's really all I can say about it. Some might be irritated and say that it raises more questions than answers; I'll merely direct you to the summary of this fic.

All throughout this story there's been a lot of deeper subtext I've written within this and various allusions to other things. Some aren't that obvious, and some are. I will be slightly disappointed, however, if no one figures out where Michael's name is derived from. Clues are littered throughout the fic, and the source of his name could lead to a different interpretation of the story (especially if you reread it carefully). I myself try not to read the story in any one way - it's very open-ended, but there are hints and clues as to what really may be going on. That's all I'll say.

Disclaimer: don't own Barty Trilogy.

Deuteronomy

Mandrake blinked, quite taken aback. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?" Michael huffed. He was now in a sore mood, apparently. "What do you think I'm talking about?"

"She's alive?" His eyes flashed, and for a second the djinni's taunting words came back to him. Bartimaeus had said that she had died. Had he been lying? _"Where?"_

"Why do you want to know?" Michael shot back, goading him. "Want to arrest her, do you?"

"It's none of your damn business why I want to know," Mandrake growled angrily. Of course he didn't want to arrest her. He just wanted to see her, prove that she was there. Maybe even talk over a cup of tea.

"Getting defensive again," the old man muttered. "A fault that we will have to remedy. But now isn't the time for that."

Glad that they agreed on _something_, Mandrake nodded. "Precisely. If you could just tell me where I can find her –"

"Oh, I'm not going to do that." Michael smirked, and seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in infuriating him. "Do you notice how you haven't been spluttering in disbelief? You're finally just accepting and understanding, and not thinking. I told you it would just overcomplicate –"

"_What?_ Why aren't you going to tell me where to find her? I need to see her!"

"It's only for your own protection."

"My own protection!" he moaned. "What does that mean?"

"She hates John Mandrake. Despises him. No, no, that meeting would not turn out well." He looked around absentmindedly, as if just remembering something. "Oh look, you both have left. We'd better get going as well; this place can drive a person mad after a while."

Mandrake bit his lip, not caring at all for the alternative. "Of course she hates me, I nearly killed her!"

"I never said she hated _you_, did I?" Michael stared at him. A look of worry came over his face. "Oh dear, I think you're starting to go mad already. Pity."

"You just said that she hated John Mandrake!" he cried. What was this man's problem? "I am John Mandrake! Therefore, she hates me!"

"That's your problem," the Gazer replied calmly. If he hadn't known better, he would've presumed that the old man was just talking about sports – something trivial, not life-changing. "You are not John Mandrake. John Mandrake is a name, a façade, an entirely different person altogether. You are not yet him. You are still, at the core, you."

"Will you stop speaking in riddles?"

Unfortunately, Michael appeared to have no intention of doing so. "If we hide behind a mask do we become the mask? Do our masks become us?'

"I'm pretty sure that's still a riddle."

"No, it's philosophical mumbo jumbo," he said with a small degree of humor. "Quite different. But it applies to the situation."

"Oh really? How so?"

The old man paced about the are for a while before even showing any sign that he had heard Mandrake's question. "What's in a name, anyway? Let me tell you, my boy: names are nothing. What they resemble is the true matter of consequence. I don't care that you go by the name John Mandrake; I care that you believe you are John Mandrake. John Mandrake is selfish, greedy, and ruthless. He is cold and cynical. That's not to say that you – Nathaniel – are an angel. Far from it. But you are not John Mandrake. You are still you."

"I'm…" Mandrake looked away, and for some reason the first thought that came to mind was the fire at Underwood's house. Had it really been only five years ago? It seemed like ages… "I'm not that idealistic little runt anymore."

"I know. That's the problem." Michael let out a deep, sad sigh. "Every once in a while, Nathaniel, an individual receives an opportunity. Many times they do not know they have gotten such a thing; that's one of the main problems with people today. The wise individual can recognize these opportunities, and the truly brilliant among them can actually take that opportunity and make the best of it. I am giving you an opportunity, Nathaniel. I'm not going to give you the chance to wipe the slate clean, or erase all of your mistakes. I'm just going to give you the chance to repair what you've done to yourself and others."

"I… I don't understand."

"Enough of that!" he exclaimed, and Mandrake thought that he was going to sink into a fit of rage. "Of course you understand! You're not a fool! You know that inside, you are still Nathaniel, that you still question the motives and morals of the ruthless!" He stepped back and shook his head, taking a breath. "You know, there are also people who can help turn your life around. When you're too weak to take an opportunity, or you do and it just can't fix everything, there are those individuals who can help you become a better person. You're lucky, Nat. You could potentially have both."

"Oh really?" Mandrake spat. He was in no mood to be chastised, or to hear such a lecture. "And who may this glorious savior be?"

Michael tutted impatiently. "Such a smart young man, but so oblivious at the same time. I'm not going to just tell you. You're going to have to work it out."

"Why –" He stopped in mid-sentence. Of course. "Wait a second… surely you don't mean –"

"Precisely."

"And how will _she_ help me in any way? As I told you, she'd probably stab me at first sight!"

"A small obstacle," Michael dismissed, brushing his hand through the air. "But first you must shed this exterior, this thing you call Mandrake. You must choose… are you Nathaniel? Are you Mandrake?"

"I… I don't know." Mandrake put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. It was all too much at once. "I don't know what I am anymore."

"You didn't want to betray her, did you?" His voice was quiet now. "But you rationalized it. You said that you had to, that it was right. But you knew that it wasn't. You knew that you were just sinking further and further into your own trap."

Mandrake shook his head. He wouldn't allow such statements to be made, not about him. What did this man know? Yet sadly, some part of him believed it, believed that maybe he had been wrong. The shadow of doubt lingered in his mind. "It… it was the only thing I could've done!"

"No, it wasn't, and you fully know that," the Gazer spat. Mandrake could feel something emanating from the old man, something he couldn't put a finger on. Power, perhaps? "This wasn't the first time that you'd done something you couldn't stand. But each and every time you told yourself that you were trying, that you were only attempting to do what was right."

"I was!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air. "I was! I was trying to do what was right!"

"What is right in the eyes of a corrupt government is not what is right in the eyes of an innocent individual," Michael growled quietly. Mandrake began to grow worried; something was different about this man. "Five years ago you wouldn't have done such a thing. Stop thinking about power, Nathaniel, and start thinking about what you would do if your social stature was not on the line."

"I…" He stopped before he could say anything else, for he already knew the answer. He'd known the answer all the while. What the Gazer was saying was nothing new, nothing that he hadn't already felt. He had suppressed all of his uncertainties, but now they were running rampant once more. "I would've spared her. I would have tried."

Michael smiled, and his anger dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. He was warm, accepting even. "Precisely. I knew you had it in you."

"I've got to go," he said hurriedly as he backed away from the scene. "Thank you, sir. You've helped me more than you can imagine."

"What are you going to do?"

"I need to talk to her." He bit his lip; this would be a trying encounter. "The girl. Kitty Jones. Maybe… maybe I've not fallen too far. Maybe John Mandrake can still be destroyed. I don't know… maybe it's useless. But I – I have to try to do what is right, don't I?"

"Yes," stated Michael, "you do. I can give you one last favor, though; in your pocket there is a slip of paper with an address on it. I think you know what it is."

"Ah… thank you." Nathaniel looked at the table where the two youths had been sitting. Was it possible that he could gain her trust? Was it possible that they too could sit down and have a cup of coffee? "Do you… do you think that she can really do it, Michael?"

"Do what? Save you from yourself?" He shrugged nonchalantly, almost as if it were some simple matter. "I really don't know, Nathaniel. I'm not infinitely wise. I've been blessed with a few gifts, and I try to use those to the best of my ability. From now on, I think you're in control. You're the only one that can choose what is right."

"Oh." Nathaniel nodded; anxiety was already overcoming him. "I see."

Michael looked at him, and then back at the coffeehouse one last time. "Come, my boy. It's time to leave this alternative."

-

She could feel the familiar rush of blood to the head that came with waking up, although it took her a few seconds to register that she was, in fact, conscious. Sitting up in bed, she groped for the lamp, and soon light flooded over the small room.

It was a humble arrangement, slightly larger than the last place she had stayed. It was a small bedroom with a radio above the heater and a bed, and a door led into a bathroom. Another door led into the kitchen and living area, which were also quaint. She didn't require much, though, and was quite happy with what she had.

Throwing the covers aside, she got to her feet and headed for the bathroom. The events of the night came back to her all of a sudden, and she remembered the dream – it had been a very strange one, and had not been one of the recurring dreams she'd been having recently.

But then again, it had felt so _real_. She knew it wasn't possible, for it to have been real, but still… something was odd about it.

Maybe, she decided as she flipped the light switch and turned on the sink, she was starting to go a bit crazy. Maybe she needed some counseling.

But it had been so strange… so real…

She shook her head firmly and splashed some water on her face. _Come on, Kitty,_ she thought to herself, _get a grip. _

He was dead. He had gone and left her behind. She couldn't talk to Bartimaeus. He was dead, too. Both of them had vanished and gone on to some better life, an afterlife, maybe. Or possibly no life at all. The details were really not that important.

She would never hope that _he_ had survived… that would only lead to a letdown. But every now and then, she found herself hoping that maybe Bartimaeus had survived. Maybe, somehow, he had found a way to live, as he had so many times before.

It was crazy, though. There was no possible way.

But still…

Immediately Kitty hurried from the bathroom and into the living area. She quickly cleared out a small area and grabbed a piece of chalk, marking down all of the lines that the pentacle required. She wasn't too concerned if she messed up here or there; she _knew_ that Bartimaeus wouldn't hurt her. Like Ptolemy, she had reached out to him. They had a bond.

In a matter of minutes she was done. It was shoddy work, but she didn't expect the djinni to actually show up, anyway, so it didn't really matter, did it? It was time to do this and get over the fact that Bartimaeus was gone, that _he_ was gone. This was the only way to get over it, to move on.

She went through the words required – actually feeling as if she had nailed them all – and waited.

And waited.

_That's it. He's not coming. Get over it._

She was about to turn to leave when an irritable voice called out. "What the hell? I thought I was safe this time! I think I appeared reasonably dead –"

The voice suddenly stopped. Kitty smiled. "Hello, Bartimaeus."

"Oh." Ptolemy's face was blank. "Hello, Kitty. How are you doing? Gotten into any tussles while I've been gone? Have you been behaving yourself?"

"Yes," she said, acknowledging his small talk. "No fights as of yet."

"That's good."

"So…"

The boy frowned, although she could see his eyes darting around the pentacle nervously – expectantly, even. "If you were going to summon me, couldn't you _at least_ have had some point in mind?"

"I did!" she protested. For a moment, she could feel the old energy flowing through her veins. "I do, I mean!"

"Ah," he muttered sarcastically. "Well, just saying that you do won't impress me, Kitty. You're going to have to try harder."

"Try harder?"

"You know, tell me what it is." He kicked the edge of the carpet in a bored manner. "Your point."

"Oh." She shrugged, trying to act as casual about the matter as she could. "I just wanted to check in with you. Just see if you were alive and all."

He became rigid, and his face was unreadable. "Hm. Well, that's nice of you. But you don't really have to do that. In fact, I don't really want to intrude, so I'll just go –"

"Wait!" Kitty cried. The boy looked up at her resignedly. "I have a question."

"That's well and good, but I'm not sure I have the answer you're looking for."

"That's okay," she said, her voice quiet. "I'm just looking for an answer."

There was a silence before he finally spoke again. "The answer is no, Kitty."

"But then how did you –"

"He dismissed me." Bartimaeus's face was stony; surely _he_ had not been affected by this? He didn't care for either of them. He never had. "He dismissed me and the Staff broke because of it. He was already weakening, and he knew that he was going to have to do it anyway. By dismissing me, he saved himself the effort. It was very efficient, really. It couldn't have gone off better."

"Yeah, it could've," she replied, her voice suddenly becoming heated. "He could've survived!"

Bartimaeus was calm, and she had the strange feeling that he'd had far too many experiences like this to be as shaken as she was. "There was no way, Kitty. He wouldn't have lived through it anyway. He did what he had to do. I think, at the end, that he was just trying to do what was right."

"And he did," she said feebly.

"I'll say. He saved my life, and everyone else's!" For once the djinni looked regretful. "Never did get the chance to tell him exactly what I thought of him. A pity."

Kitty looked at the ground. That had been what she had expected. No surprises there. "So he's gone. Just like that."

"Yes."

"But he promised he'd come back!" Her voice was straining now, and she could feel her fists tighten up and her knuckles whiten.

"I rather think he would have if he could," Bartimaeus responded solemnly; she could see that he was having some trouble restraining himself from making a derogatory comment. "But he did what he had to do. That's the way it is, I guess."

She didn't reply, and the room was quiet for some time. The first rays of the morning broke in through the window, and something twittered outside. Finally an uncomfortable Bartimaeus broke the silence.

"He told me to tell you something, though." His face was once again unreadable. "He said to say hello."

Her hands loosened and her fingers fell slack at her hips. "It would've been nice if he would've given me the opportunity to say goodbye, as well."

"We both know that you would've gone after us," he stated in a matter-of-fact voice. "Even the Amulet wouldn't have protected you then."

"I know."

"Good. You're a smart girl." Bartimaeus shifted his balance awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. "Anything else you want? Any other things I can clear up?"

"No," Kitty said, staring at the ground. "I just wanted to talk."

"Ah. So…"

"I'll dismiss you."

"Good!" His mood brightened considerably, although he still was a bit anxious. "As much as I hate being pulled from the Other Place, it's been a nice visit, but it's been long enough for me. I'm tired and old. I need my rest."

"Yes, I know. I'm dismissing you."

"Very good. Goodbye, Kitty. Stay out of trouble." He started forwards, as if realizing something. "Oh, and don't tell anyone that you summoned me! I'd like to be thought dead. Although tell them that I died in a blaze of hellfire. And that Nouda whimpered at my feet."

"Of course, Bartimaeus," she said with a slight grin despite herself. "Goodbye."

Before he could put in another word she spoke the words of dismissal and he was gone. The pentacle was empty and she was alone once more.

It had not been an emotionally draining visit, as she might've anticipated, for she had gotten the answer she had been expecting. She just hadn't gotten the one she was looking for.

_So that's how it is, isn't it?_ Kitty thought. _He's dead. Bartimaeus is alive, at least. That's good, I guess._

But that was just her trying to rationalize the situation. She was fully aware that she was still terrified and angry, and most of all confused – confused as to where to go from here.

Piper had once asked her if she had cared for him. Kitty had taken a moment to shrug before meekly saying, "I'm not happy that he's dead."

"Well," Piper had said, "I don't think any of us are. But now… now we have to move forward. Now we've got to stop looking back."

_I'm still looking back, _she had thought before dryly asking, "How soon is now?"

Piper had given her a shake of the head as an answer.

A knock on the door of the flat shook her from her reminiscence. Clearing her mind, Kitty headed for the handle and slung it open. On the doormat was her mail, neatly stacked as it always was.

"Let's see… Bill, letter from Jakob, magazine, bill –" Suddenly she stopped. This envelope was different from the rest: it was thin and of a gray color, and was not postmarked. Silently she opened it and unfolded the paper inside before directing her attention to the tidy scrawl and reading.

- No. 7 Helsing Circle 

_Sometimes the best answers are questions._


End file.
